The Sex Life of a Married Hero
by Jade Sabre
Summary: or, Why Heroes Get Married, or Four Weddings and a Funeral. An examination of one Hero's journey navigating the romantic waters of Albion. A Fable I fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Sex Life of a Married Hero

or, Why Heroes Get Married

or, Four Weddings and Funeral

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**Note: **I first started this fic…at least four years ago, and I have worked on it on and off again ever since. It has followed me through college and two jobs and now a wedding, and having sent my own hero off to fight in a much less noble war, I've finished it, and I hope you enjoy it. Reviews are always appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** Fable doesn't belong to me.

* * *

**The Sex Life of a Married Hero, **or** Why Heroes Get Married, **or** Four Weddings and a Funeral**

1.

He married his first wife on a whim, flushed with the onset of victory and fame and adoration and all the things that came with being a successful Hero. She'd come up to him, fawning over him and saying, "Is it just me, or is it a bit 'ot in 'ere?" while leaning too close to the candle flame, her shoulders hunched in a way that drew his eyes to the expanse of her cleavage. In the flickering light she'd seemed beautiful, and it was the first time he'd heard the heat in a woman's voice, heat to match the blood thundering through his veins.

So he went out and bought the ring and the house (the _marital_ house, and it would be a shame to rent something with such a title for someone else to use) and married her, and a little crowd gathered around the pavilion to wish them well, and he heard their cheers as he kissed her—her lips were chapped, her cheeks plump—and knew he was on the right path.

Of course out in the sunlight it was clear she was a good ten years older than he was, and after he'd carried her over the threshold and spent his first night in her arms, he woke to hear her voice, talking about someone named Archie she'd known once upon a time and sakes alive, hadn't he been the nicest fellow. He came to realize that hearing her voice meant one of two things: comparisons between him and past lovers, or criticisms. She nagged him about coming home more often, complained about Traders going to the Orchard Farm (indeed, he himself never figured out what was so particularly attractive about the farm, but as long as it stood there were Traders who wished to go), and gave him cheap gifts of patched trousers and half-baked pies, even when he brought home the rarest of treasures from his journeys (his first emerald from an earth troll, a bouquet of roses to remind her of their courtship). He heard her bragging about him in the pub, her Hero, her big strong Hero, as he walked past, heading out the gates of Bowerstone and into a world where he was simply one Hero among many, and a young one at that.

The final straw was the day he came back from protecting Orchard Farm, sore and tired but determined to give her a proper sort of welcome. She was waiting with another pair of darned trousers and wearing a skirt with nothing underneath, and although he could barely bring himself to look at her, he scooped her up in his arms, deposited her in the bed, and bounced for all he was worth until, completely spent, he collapsed onto his back, closing his eyes and exhaling with not-quite-relief, not-quite-satisfaction.

It was quiet for a moment, and then she said, in her chirpy voice, "Short but sweet, I always say. Why, I had a man named Jackie once, and he was only ever good for five minutes either, but sakes alive…"

He forced himself to move—forced himself out of his nice feather bed, forced himself to pull on his pants, to grab his sack, his muscles aching in protest—and just as he was reaching for his Guild seal she squawked, "Now where are you going?"

"To sleep at the Guild," he said. "I won't be back."

"Well I ne—" she started, and then the familiar twinkling kaleidoscope enveloped him and he left the arms of the first woman he'd ever slept with, but not the first woman, it turned out, he'd ever loved.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

His second wife hadn't really been a mistake—he would never say that—but it remained an anomaly, squirreled away in the last house on the hill in Oakvale. He'd bought the house because his other wife—his ex-wife, he hoped, though he hadn't been back to Bowerstone to check—was occupying that particular marital home. It gave him a bed at night and a roof over his head, anyway, and Oakvale had a Cullis Gate, and the people there liked him, even remembered him from his childhood. For the first time in years he felt connected to the life he'd once had, the mother and father and sister, the sense of family and home he'd never quite found with Whisper or the Guild.

Still, it remained some sort of dream, out of his grasp, detached from the actual reality of his life, no matter how he tried to reach for it. The little girl with the teddy bear greeted him upon his return, and though he combed the village for hours afterwards, there was no trace of the bouncy brunette whose childish cries for her Rosie still echoed in his mind. Dejected but determined not to show it—after all, there were plenty of pretty girls in town, all smiling in his direction—he trudged back up the hill from the beach, eyes downcast until he ran into something solid.

The something solid—a dockhand—dropped its load with a squawk.

"Sorry," the Hero said, but the dockhand's eyes widened and a blush spread across his pale cheeks.

"Y-you're the Liberator!" he gasped

This was true, as of a few months. He'd gotten tired of his first wife calling him Chicken Chaser and had hoped buying a new title—the most expensive title he could afford that still made sense—would break her of the habit, but it had been of no use. He wasn't quite accustomed to the new title, although it still pleased him that people knew it. So he smiled at the dockhand, which only caused the man to blush more.

"Oh no," he said, "it's just such an honor—"

"Let me buy you a drink," the Hero said, "to make up for the crate."

The drink turned into two or three, while the two men whittled away time talking about the docks and the way the town had rebuilt itself after the bandit raid, which led to an invitation to see what the Hero had done with the old house on the hill. And then it started to rain, and so they had another drink by the warm fire, and for a brief moment, the Hero felt…peaceful.

Which perhaps explained why, that rainy night, he found himself not building a little family of his own, but instead kissing Donny the dockhand. It hadn't been an accident—he'd quite firmly placed a hand behind his head and brought their lips together—and Donny, for all his stutterings and blushes, kissed him back just as sure.

The next morning he found himself naked in bed with another man, and unlike the first time such a thing had happened with a woman, he found he wasn't inclined to have another go of it. So he dressed and sat by the empty fireplace and waited for Donny to wake, unable to think of anything to say.

"'s all right," Donny said, when the Hero turned away from his morning kiss. "I don't know much about all what you've studied in books, but I know sometimes people do things they don't mean to—"

"I meant to," the Hero said quietly. "I just don't—can't—" He blushed, a rare thing by then, and said, "It was…calming."

"Well then," Donny said, "might I ask you for a bit of peace of mind in return? It wouldn't mean nothing much," he added hastily, "just…a roof over me head would be nice, and you being a big Hero won't be here often anyways, and I could always go…"

The Hero listened to him ask, shy and stuttering, and knew that in the years to come people might wonder why a dockhand lived in the Hero's house without paying rent, and that he would visit, but never for too long, and that he would receive nice things and give beer in return, and that he would never be able to rekindle what had happened the previous night and that Donny would spend sleepless nights in futile anticipation—but he also knew, without question, that he would say yes.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

By the time he returned to Bowerstone for more than the briefest of hours, he was a different man—older, a little wiser, a lot more full of himself. He merely had to walk into a room to cause women to sigh, and with a few strategic "hey"s and a fair amount of posturing he could have them swooning on his arms. He'd occasionally see his tenant—for the guards had been collecting rent on his behalf ever since she'd divorced him—muttering darkly in the ears of the younger girls, but they paid her no heed and clamored for his attentions whenever he came to town. He was a bona fide Hero, and entitled to such attention.

He'd seen her behind the bar in the pub, cleaning plates and mugs, her dark hair up in a ponytail, her shirt appealingly low-cut, her trousers tucked into her boots and tight enough to appreciate all the curves that fit her together. She'd swooned over the flirtations, felt his biceps as he flexed his arms, teasingly danced her fingers over the thin material of his shirt, brazen as any of the hundreds of other girls he'd met.

"Follow me," he said.

"Sorry," she said, eyes sparkling with heat, "but I've dishes to clean."

He repeated his request, and every time she turned him down. He followed her around the pub as she went from task to task, until she finally straightened from wiping a table, put a hand on her hip, and said, "Why don't you go see about getting me a wedding ring, then?"

So he told his ex-wife to move in with her mother, and carried a new girl over the threshold—this one ten years younger ("only five, though it's sweet of you to say ten")—and made love to her like he hadn't been with a woman in ten years (only eight, he thought, her gasps and cries splitting his eardrums in the best of ways). It wasn't like his first wife, though—this was the kind of girl he could lift off her feet, who would wrap her legs around his waist in the middle of the day and let him push her into the wall and scream so loud the children at the school next door told their teacher they were afraid a Balverine had come after the Hero while the school teacher pursed his lips to mask his jealousy.

This girl was saucy, and held down her own job at the pub, and shooed him out of the house while standing in the doorway half-dressed blowing kisses as he hurried off on the next Guild assignment. It didn't matter if he was gone weeks or months; she was always walking down the hill to meet him when he returned with a long kiss and whatever bit of armor she'd scrounged up from the mercenaries coming through town. She kissed his bruises and licked his scars and mussed his blonde hair and sang with happiness, and all he could do was stare at her and wonder what made her so confident, that she could say, "Together forever, my Hero and me."

Years passed, and while coming to Bowerstone wasn't quite coming home, it was still coming to a place with a roof and a bed that had a woman in it, and he didn't know why, after visiting the northern part of town, he felt a need to disturb that. But he saw, by the way she stood in the doorway with a tub of laundry balanced on her hip, that she had heard, and knew he would have to say _something_, though words were not his specialty.

"So," she said as he climbed the steps, "the Arena Champion's being courted by Lady Grey herself, I hear?"

"Yes," he said, pushing past her into the well-furnished living room, dropping his sack against the wall as he headed up the stairs.

"Is that all you have to say?" she demanded, following him, still carrying the tub.

"She has a large dowry," he said over his shoulder, "and she is mayor of the town." She was also a murderess and, for all he knew, in league with the darker powers of Albion. It would only be wise to keep her close.

"And great big Heroes only marry ladies, is that it?" she said.

"Do you not like the idea of having a husband who's lord of Bowerstone?" He shrugged out of his armor, letting it drop to the floor with clangs and thumps as each piece came undone. "You have a large, beautiful house, free rein over your days. All I ask for is—"

"All I wanted," she said, "was _you_."

He didn't know what to say in response. He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his boots, while she stood at the head of the stairs, staring at him while holding a tub full of laundry—probably _her_ laundry, and he wondered what other routines she had that he interrupted when he returned home. He met her gaze for a moment, and her stare was unflinching; he looked down, and rummaged for what he had dropped down his left boot.

"Here," he said, holding out the rough red stone on the palm of his hand. "I found this for you."

The laundry tub fell with a clang not unlike his gauntlets as she rushed to him, her hands on her face. "Ooooh," she said, "it's lovely, dearest!"

He placed the ruby in her hands and described the battle he'd had with the earth troll guarding Greatwood Lake, while she leaned against him, listening. "You're so brave," she said. "My big, strong Liberator."

The Hero hadn't bothered to change his title in years, though he wasn't convinced this one fit—he had no idea who he was supposed to have liberated, or from what—and he didn't bother to correct her about his bravery. Fighting trolls had become as much a matter of habit as most of his work, firing off an arrow, taking shelter while pulling his bowstring taut; as routine as slicing off men's heads (sometimes he made a game of it) or hearing the screams of souls released from undeath. Being a Hero involved routine, from death to gold to women fawning over him, begging him to be theirs. Elvira Grey was just the latest in a long string of women asking for a ring, and she just happened to own her own house.

"I do my best," he said. After another moment, he said, "And Lady Grey?"

His wife craned her neck to look up at him. "Do you love her?"

That was an easy question. "No."

She settled back against his chest; he willed his hand to reach up and stroke her hair, but instead simply waited for her to make a decision.

"She has a large dowry, you say?" He felt her hair brush his skin as she looked around. "You could touch this place up a bit."

"Thanks," he said, but she was quiet, and he wondered, for the first time, if she was perhaps as restless as he.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Elvira Grey had fucked bigger, stronger men than he, and she never quite let him forget it.

He couldn't say the same about her; she was the sexiest, richest, most manipulative woman he'd ever met. Her accent was sleek and refined, rather like her body, both in contrast to the things she whispered in his ears as she raked her nails across his back. His other wife assumed he'd gotten the scars in battle, and sleeping with Elvira _was _something of a battle—one he usually lost as she rode him, smiling down in satisfaction as he thrashed beneath her with barely enough presence of mind to avoid begging. She tweaked and she nipped and she bit and she told him off when he yelped: "You're a Hero in more ways than one," she said. "Surely you're tough enough to handle a little bit of play?"

It was too late to escape her clutches entirely, so he did his best to avoid her, which often meant avoiding Bowerstone altogether—the guards reported when he went to the slums, such as they were, and she would always pout the next time she saw him. "Can't you come to see me every once in a while?" she said, toying with one of the clasps of his armor in the courtyard of her house, looking up at him with large violet eyes. He thought about the picture they presented to the passerby—a perfect happy ending, her house the safe haven to which he could retreat when the pressures of fame overcame him.

He never had a chance to see if life with her could be even half that, as Jack of Blades's effective trap left him to spend a year in a cold, dark prison cell, the sort of cell his mother had lived in for years, thanks to his failures. He curled up on the straw mattress in the corner and listened to the echoing cries of the other inmates as they talked in their sleep, calling out for mothers, lovers, children, keeping their names alive. He wondered if he had a list in his sleep, though he couldn't think of who would be on it.

When he finally escaped, he dragged himself to the Bowerstone Jail with his fellow inmates in tow. The guards immediately began identifying the missing men against the reports filed, while a few others hastily carried him off to the mayor's mansion. Elvira was waiting for him, watching as they settled him on the bed before perching next to him with a bowl of water and a washcloth. Her manner nothing short of attentive, she shooed the guards out, and then smiled down at him. He smiled back, forcing his face to shift out of its pain, and felt something in him lift for an instant.

"Well, well, well," she said, dabbing at a cut on his forehead, and smiling as he hissed, "look who's come home."

He couldn't summon up the strength to speak, and spent what little he had on keeping himself from whimpering as she tended his wounds with the bedside manner of a rock troll. "It's been a long time, dearest," she said, "but I can see that you're tired, so I'll give you a reprieve. And never you worry about me; I've found plenty of ways to keep myself entertained in your absence."

He closed his eyes, but her voice continued, low and seductive, as she stripped him of his shirt and straddled his waist, tracing his wounds with her fingernails. "At first I was afraid you'd died, but I always felt that I'd _know _if that happened. Albion would know. And so," she dabbed at another wound, nipped his nose when he groaned, "I resigned myself to waiting for you, but Jack of Blades is notorious for keeping prisoners in a prison from which no one has ever escaped. And dearest, that would have been a very long time to wait, you know."

He wanted to tell her that he could barely breathe in the first place and that having her atop him was not helping. "Don't worry," she said, "I shan't punish you for your absence." He summoned up a look of disbelief, and she laughed and said, "Well, perhaps a little bit of punishment," squeezing his rib cage with her knees, her purple dress hiked up to her lovely pale thighs. "But only after you've recovered. I'll attend to you personally, so that shouldn't take long."

She leaned over him, and for a moment all he could see was her violet eyes sparking with anticipatory lust, and he thought, _no_. His Guild seal was still in his pocket; with one hand, he reached for it, while the other grabbed her hip and pressed her down. He kept his eyes on hers, watched them widen; she said, "Dearest, you're still too—"

He reappeared in Oakvale and collapsed. He closed his eyes, lying half-dead on the side of the road, and focused his mind until he could draw on enough Magicka to heal himself. Dragging himself to his feet, he limped the rest of the way to his house, cutting through brush in order to avoid the road and the inevitably overly concerned guards waiting for him there. Once inside, he pulled aside the blankets on the bed and fell face-first into the comforting darkness of the pillow.

He didn't know how many hours later Donny woke him up with a timid "Hero?" but his eyes had difficulty adjusting to the flickering light from the fireplace. "Hero?" Donny said again, as he turned his face towards the room, blinking, feeling the aches in his body settling into his bones.

"Hm?" he said.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Donny said, and it was enough to make him want to bury his face in the pillow again. Donny deserved better; he did his best to sit up, and the dockhand gasped. He knew he was still wearing his prison clothes, and he supposed he was still covered with dried blood and vomit and Avo knew what else. "I'll—a bath," Donny said, backing away from the bed.

"Thanks," the Hero said, and meant it. He sat on the bed with his hands hanging between his knees while Donny set a large metal tub near the fire and filled it with water. He thought he ought to help, but he could barely lift his arms, and anyway the Guild didn't teach spells for drawing a bath. He could make the water warm, however, and he did this as he slowly sank his limbs into the tub while Donny pointedly turned his back and went for the door.

"I'll go see what they're cooking at the tavern," the dockhand said over his shoulder. "I don't have much to eat, I'm afraid. Wasn't expecting you."

No one ever expected him, unless they were expecting work to be done.

He tried soaking away a year in Bargate Prison, tried to clean the filth out of the barely-scabbed wounds and burns covering his aging skin (and when had it started to hang loose on his muscles? It had stretched as tightly as his shirt across his chest, and now it chafed); the grime formed a scum atop the bathwater that clung as he climbed out and crusted as he dried off, sitting naked before the fire. He considering looking for more water but rejected the idea nearly as soon as it formed. He searched for a shirt instead.

"Here you are," Donny said when he returned, carrying two steaming bowls of stew; if he was disappointed by the clothing, he gave no sign. The Hero accepted the food; its smell nearly overwhelmed him. _Real_ food, it scorched his mouth as he gobbled it down, his mind blanking from the sheer pleasure of meat and vegetables and juices dribbling down his chin.

"I was wondering," Donny said, his voice as high-pitched as he remembered. Sometimes he felt as though he were the only one that changed; perhaps he simply wasn't around enough to know what people were like to begin with. "That is…you're back now, right?"

"More or less," the Hero said, licking the rim of his bowl.

"Good," Donny said. "'Cause there's these men, see, that have been asking after the house and who lives here, and they wear all black and they were at the tavern tonight and—"

There was a crash as the window over the bed shattered under the pressure of two booted feet. The glass was followed by the perpetrators, hooded and knived and heading straight for the Hero. He didn't have time to think; the dinner sitting in his belly precluded movement, but lifting his hand and summoning lightning took nothing more than the desire to do so, and that he had in spades.

The acrid smell of burning cloth and hair and flesh replaced the crackling flash of pure electric power; his nose twitched, while the sound of retching reminded him that Donny was still in the house. He stood, his bones creaking, and made his way over to the corner, where the dockhand crouched behind the armoire, his arms over his head.

"Sorry," he said, offering his hand.

"That's all right," Donny said, his voice shakier than usual. "Who—who were they?"

"Assassins, probably," he said. "I'll see to them in—" He looked back at the bed, covered in shards of glass, and the drawer where he kept a spare sword. "I'll see to them tonight."

"Are you sure?" Donny said, though he stayed huddled on the floor. "You don't want—"

"Thanks for dinner," he said. "I'm going to go now."

The spare armor fit poorly, and the sword was old and cheap and felt almost unfamiliar in his hand, as though he could barely remember what it was like to be young and just starting out in the world. The night was darker than he remembered—and he wondered if Jack of Blades could block the light of the stars, even here—but a year in prison had taught him patience, and it didn't take too long for the shadows of the assassins to detach themselves from the boulders outside Oakvale and come to be spitted upon his blade. Their mistake was in attempting to attack him directly; his mistake had been in thinking Oakvale a safe place to hide.

He left in the greyish light of dawn, holding tight to his Guild seal without a destination in mind. He found himself before the gates of the Guild Hall, staring at its tall wood wall as the morning mist collected around his knees. He half-turned and saw the boasting platform, bringing with it the remembered sting of too many wasps fought naked; he returned his gaze to the wall, hearing the echoes as it closed behind him for the first time, holding him inside for the happier years of his adolescence.

"Hey, Hero," said a voice, and he turned the other way and saw, materializing in the mist, the Title Vendor's booth. The vendor himself leaned over the counter, squinting in the lantern light.

"Hey," the Hero said.

The vendor lifted his eyebrows. "No thanks, but didn't I sell you a title?"

The Hero nodded once, then returned his attention to the gates, contemplating knocking.

"That's it," the vendor said, snapping his fingers. "Liberator, wasn't it? You're the Liberator."

He nodded again, though really he was more liberated than liberating, and barely that besides.

"Been a long time gone, eh, Liberator?" the vendor said. "They'll be happy to see you in there, they will. Been hurting for Heroes around this place. Hey, where're you going?"

He was twenty feet from the gate without realizing how he'd gotten there. He looked back at the vendor, who shrugged. "No shame in it, you know," he said. "How's about a new title? There's always time to reinvent yourself."

"No," the Hero said, already starting to run, "thanks."

And where was he going to go? The crossroads would soon be full of Traders trying to get to Orchard Farm, and he wasn't going to be facing any trolls in the wood dressed like this. The picnic area was a dead end, and Bowerstone…

Bowerstone had a bed. And if worse came to worst, he could always drown himself off the quay.

He bribed the guards with the spare coin he found in his pockets, buying their silence on his presence, and slipped into the city as the sun rose and the shops opened. The slums smelled of wet grass and the sewage flowing down the river. He inhaled deeply, stepping into the flow of average citizens beginning their daily trade. He visited the swordsmith to see if he had any new weapons; he stopped by the barber and had her shave his head. She commented on the silver threaded amidst the blonde, and he bit his tongue before commenting about the stress of prison. His mother's hair was completely white, and Theresa probably had crow's feet, though no one would ever know. They were getting old.

He left the barber and blinked in the sunlight. His eyes ached in the brightness, and he made his way towards the tavern, intending to look in long enough to ensure his wife was working and that the house would be empty before he returned there. He loitered on the steps, glancing in the door, but he didn't see her; he was about to give up and go home before he was reduced to crawling up the hill when someone said, "Well, look who's back in town."

He closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh, don't you hide your face," his first wife said, her voice as grating as ever. "Everyone should celebrate, seeing as the Lord of Bowerstone's come home."

He opened his eyes and peeked under his hand; she stood entirely too close with her hand on her hip, a basket in her other arm, the wrinkles on her face carving sharp lines around her features. "And where've you been, my lord?" she asked. "Everyone's missed you so, what with the Balverines and the undead and the bandits and the wasps and the fairies. Hasn't been safe to step foot outside your door since you've been gone."

"I'm not the only Hero," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me, the way you acted, only happy if you had every woman swooning at your feet. Liberator's the name on everybody's lips, whether they're praising your deeds or cursing your absence. Or at least it was at first. Now you're just forgotten."

"Forgotten?" he said.

She snorted. "Look at you, bald and hoping for free swill. Is this where you've been? Hiding behind the back doors of taverns? Tsk." She poked him in the chest, hard, and came away as though unsurprised by the give of his flesh beneath her finger. "You never were much, dear, but this is just…disappointing."

She shook her head and turned away and within three steps he could tell she'd pushed him completely from her mind. He shoved away from the tavern wall and made his way up the hill towards his house; he had to use his sword as a cane, his legs straining with the effort of so much walking, and the children laughed at him as he came into view. None of them knew who he was; they were too young to have remembered him before he disappeared, and now he was no one. Less than no one; a Hero without his strength was nothing at all.

He couldn't face the stairs. He shut the front door and curled up in the plush rug in the front hall, his hand still gripping his sword, and he slept.

"Well," said his wife, somewhere above his head, her voice soothing through the muddle in his mind, "this can't be comfortable." He felt her tug at his arm. "Come on, love, let's get you to bed." His legs twitched. "Yes, that's it, I can't do this myself you know, come on—" and somehow he got his feet under him and his arm over her shoulders, and next thing he knew she was helping him limp up the stairs and collapse into bed. He half-saw her, blurry, bending over him; she saw his open eye and said, "Hush, love, you just go on back to sleep now," and so he did.

He half-woke again—she was stripping him of his armor—dozed to sound of his prison rags being ripped from his frame—woke to the cold shock of water; she washed him, carefully, and he opened his eyes and watched. Her brown hair was still back in its ponytail, exposing the layers of grey on the bottom; the flickering candlelight cast shadows into the lines around her eyes and nose. He'd always thought she was sexy; he'd never stopped to think that she was beautiful.

"Awake, are you?" she said, glancing at him as she wiped down his chest with the damp sponge. "Do you feel up to getting in the tub?" He shook his head, savoring her gentle touch. "That's all right. Here," she said, handing him a bottle filled with red liquid, "this is for you."

He accepted the health potion incredulously. "Thanks," he said, propping himself up on one arm, pulling at the cork with his teeth. She paused in her ministrations while he chugged the potion, feeling the thick liquid coat his throat, seep into his veins, seek his wounds—he dropped the bottle and fell back onto his pillow, relishing even the vestiges of strength creeping into his limbs.

"Helpful?" his wife asked, resuming her work.

He closed his eyes, feeling her hands knead cloth and water and care into his skin, and simply said, "Thanks."

He slept for much of the next few days, at first because he didn't have the strength to get out of bed, and then because he didn't have the will to leave its soft confines. After a year of lying on what felt like flea-bitten stone, the downy comfort of his wife's bed felt like a dream. Sometimes he woke to feel her near, lying beside him but careful not to touch his bandaged limbs; other times he could turn his head to watch her bustling about the bedroom, airing out clothes and polishing armor he vaguely recognized as his. If she caught him looking, she always smiled, and that was usually enough to close his eyes and send him back to sleep.

There came the day he felt well enough to get out of bed, and then the day he felt well enough to go down the stairs and watch his wife make dinner. He sat at the table and watched her in the kitchen, watched her leave the nicer dishes as decoration and pull out the bowls and plates she'd brought with her to their marriage. She smiled at him from the counter as she chopped apples and carrots; he watched her small, deft movements, marveling at her skill. She could cook and clean and feed and what was he good for? Swinging an axe.

"Keep an eye on the porridge, will you, love?" she said, and he went over to the hearth and looked down at the bubbling pot. It continued bubbling while he looked at it, and he heard he laugh and say, "Stir it, love, that's a good man."

He picked up the wooden spoon and stirred it until she said, "That's enough," when he dropped the spoon in the porridge and retreated to his chair at the table. She joined him soon enough with the porridge and the carrots and apples in some sort of sauce, and at her encouraging nod he picked up his spoon and started eating. The sweetness of the sauce made up for the blandness of the porridge, and altogether the meal _soothed_ him, brought back memories of the dining hall at the Guild, warm food on cold mornings with Whisper. He glanced up at his wife, watched her chew a bite of apple and sigh, dangling her spoon as she stared off into the middle distance. He wondered if she minded cooking for him, if she had enough food for both of them—if she'd been glad to see him again. He thought he was glad to see her; he dropped his gaze and went back to the safety of his meal.

She got him seconds without him asking, and when he finished she said, "Best not push it. You've been sick." She picked up his bowl and bent and kissed him on the forehead and said, "I'm glad you liked it."

"Thanks," he said, watching her take their dishes back to the counter.

She looked back to him and said, "I don't need any help cleaning. You just go on up to bed."

He nodded, and braced himself against the table as he pushed back his chair and stood. He watched her for another minute, scraping residue into the fire, and then he surprised himself by walking to her instead of the stairs. She glanced up at him questioningly, her hands slowing in their work as he closed his eyes and kissed her, her lips parting in surprise before matching his, soft and gentle and sweet with apples and something else.

He rested his forehead against hers, eyes still closed, and said into the quiet of their breathing, "Thanks."

He felt her skin crinkle in a smile. "You're welcome, love," she said, pressing back against him for a moment before backing up and giving him a stern look. "Now," she said, "off to bed with you."

He nodded and obeyed, her happy whistling following him up the stairs.

The days continued to pass; in the old days, he would have been long gone on his next adventure, but despite the urgency of his mother's instructions he lingered. Now he was the one waiting at home while she went to work, walking out to greet her when she came up the hill at the end of a long day. His strength came back to him, slowly, and while he couldn't quite lift her into the wall he could still carry her up the stairs and deposit her in their bed, and she still wrapped herself around him and squealed in his ear. He found tasks to do around the house, repairing crooked shelves and loose tiles on the roof—not particularly well, but better than they had been. He'd done his best to decorate the house as if she were a lady, but he found his wife's touches everywhere, simplicities such as her dishes or an old chair from the tavern at their desk, or the rugs handmade from old dishcloths. His trophies hung on the wall, and he had extra armor and weapons in drawers upstairs, but otherwise any visitor might not have known the lady had a husband. He did find the presents he'd given her, kept in a treasure box under the bed. Her wedding ring she wore on her hand, always, but there were plenty of jewels nestled among the dried roses and empty bottles of perfume. Still, they were leftovers from a different time, gifts from a Hero; he was a homebody now, too weak to return to the fight, and he didn't have anything left to offer.

One day he waited for his wife to come home, standing on their porch, his hands clasped behind his back. She smiled as soon as she saw him, even at the bottom of the hill, and when she reached him she kissed his cheek. "How're you today, love?" she asked.

In answer he took his hands out from behind his back and presented her with a necklace. He was oddly nervous about the gesture; he'd given her each of the unpolished stones that now glittered in their gold setting, but this gift had required thought, and patience, and care. He'd wanted to give her something that none of his other wives had, something she could keep for herself as a reminder of him, something to show, if nothing else did, that he was her husband and she his wife.

All he said was, "For you."

She glanced up at him in happy surprise before focusing her attention on the necklace, rubies wrapped and strung in gold, taking it in her hands before clasping it around her neck. She rushed past him into the house—he shifted aside, smiling as she went—and stood in front of the ornate mirror in the front hall, admiring herself in it. "Oh, dearest," she said, touching it and looking over at him, "it's—it's beautiful, love."

He smiled at her and followed her inside as she went to the kitchen, humming to herself. He sat in his chair and was thinking about responding to her in kind when she started singing, and her words froze his blood: "This kind of joy, even Jack can't destroy."

He slammed his fists down on the table without realizing it, but the loudness of it stopped her. She turned to him and said, "Dearest—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, staring down at the wood of the table and seeing only the darkness of his prison cell, hearing Jack's terrible laughter echoing throughout the stone walls, endless and cruel. "You don't know what he's capable of."

He felt her hand on his arm but refused to look up. "It's just a song," she said.

"Then don't sing it," he said, his head in his hands, grasping at hair that was no longer there with fingers too weak to grip a sword.

Silence stretched between them; he'd never ordered her to do anything, never interfered with her life; he'd only interrupted and then left again, and again, and why he now decided he had the right—"No," she said, slowly, "I think I will."

"You don't know—"

"No, I don't," she said, "and I don't know what you went through, and Avo knows you don't have to tell me, but I know that you're here, and I'm happy, and he can't take that away."

"He already has!" he exploded, shoving away from the table, from her hand on his arm, stalking up the stairs, though where he planned to go from there he wasn't sure. He couldn't very well escape her—and then she planted herself in front of him, grabbing his arms, forcing him to look down at her, but all he could see was his mother, white-haired and frail, a prisoner for so many years as to almost forget what freedom was—and the thought of _her_ so trapped frightened him. He tried to duck his head but she followed him and he could not look away and he—a Hero who had faced every foe Albion had to offer, living and dead, who had escaped Jack of Blades, if not entirely, enough to tell the tale—was forced to face the fact that the thought of something happening to her _scared_ him, filled him with nameless, helpless terror, that all of Albion could be burning but if _she _were hurt—

"And you've brought it back," she said, her grip tight on his arms, shaking him and staring at him with more fire than he'd ever seen in her eyes. "You're back, love, and he can't take that away."

"He's still out there," he said, powerless against either of them.

"And you're still here," she said, "and you'll win. Look at me," she said, taking his face in her hands. "You'll win."

He didn't dare believe her, couldn't help asking, "How can you know?"

The urgency faded from her features, and the smart, confident smile that had first drawn him to her came back to her face. "Because," she said, "you're a Hero."

"Not anymore," he said, trying to pull away, but she held him fast.

"Yes, you are," she said. "It's not just about people calling you Hero, love. It's because you always do the right thing, no matter what. It's why I've put up with you leaving me all these years. I miss you," she said, "every time you leave, but I understand," and her smile _did_ understand, looking up at him with strength and belief and love, "why you go away. And that's why I'm here. Dearest," she said, "I'll always be here."

He looked down at her, and something in his chest tightened.

"I have to go away again," he said.

Her smile tightened even as her eyes grew worried. "Oh?"

He covered her hands with his own, gently pried them off his face and held them to his chest. "I can stop him," he said, the words slow to come to him, as though he was afraid to speak them because he knew they were true. "I can stop him. My mother—"

"Sh," she said, pressing her palms against his chest. "You can tell me when you come home."

He looked at her a moment more, then said, "Promise?"

"I promise," she said, and pushed him away. "Now go. Your armor's still where it used to be, and I know you've got a sword around here somewhere—"

Together they found his belongings, the most powerful ones he had in storage, and she helped him buckle into his armor and belt his sword around his waist. He tested his strength, adjusting to the weight of mail (plate would be too heavy) and running through old sword forms, his memory stronger than he'd thought. She found bread and dried meat for him to eat and extra gold for him to buy more food, should he have need.

"Now," she said, standing before him at the door, "be safe, and don't worry about me—"

He stopped her with a kiss, long and deep, unspoken, running his hand into her hair as she clung to him, kissing him back.

"Promise," he said again, roughly, into her lips, and then he stepped away from her, and turned to face his destiny.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: **Reviews are always appreciated.

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5.

He buried his mother next to his father in Oakvale's little cemetery. It was a small affair with little ceremony; Theresa came, blind but not needing to see, and Donny was there, because it would have been wrong to visit and not say hello. A few of the other townspeople stopped by to pay their respects, those friends of his parents left living, and others closer to his age whose vague memories of their childhood included stories of the great Scarlet Robe. The memorial was short, and afterwards people left to give the siblings space. He dug and filled the grave himself, and when he was done, he wiped his hands and leaned on his shovel, and sighed.

"Thank you, brother," Theresa said. "It's good that Mother and Father are together again."

"Yes," he said, devoid of triumph.

"You've done well," his sister said, resting her hand on his shoulder, though how she knew exactly where it was mystified him. "Albion is safe thanks to you."

"Yes," he said, standing by his parents' graves, looking at the bandages on his sister's face, feeling the aches and pains in his own body that might never fully heal. They stood together, yet the costs of the journey drove a wedge into the silence between them.

"Well," Theresa said finally, "little brother, I think this is goodbye."

He looked up at her, surprised. She smiled and said, "There's always work to be done, after all."

"Do you need help?"

She shook her head. "No," she said, "you've earned your rest. But my Sight will never let me sleep easy, I'm afraid, and I must follow where it leads me." She squeezed his shoulder. "But perhaps we'll meet again."

"Perhaps," he said.

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

He felt the corners of his mouth turn up for the first time, free from the burden of fear and sadness and guilt, simply—happy. "Yes," he said, and he couldn't keep satisfaction out of his voice.

"Good," said his sister, and then she kissed him on the cheek, and dropped her hand, and turned and walked away. He cast one last look at his parents' tombstones, then shouldered his shovel and followed the path she had taken to the gate; he looked in all directions, but she was gone.

He wandered through Oakvale, remembering his childhood, chasing Theresa through pumpkin patches, catching Orwin Gown with his mistress, kicking chickens over fences, playing in the surf at sunset. He barely remembered being that boy without a care in the world, a world now out of his reach. And so he waved goodbye to Donny's house, and walked to the outskirts of town, and stood in the Cullis Gate, and activated his Guild Seal.

He appeared in Bowerstone South in the late afternoon, the sun stretching his shadow the length of his days as he passed through the shopping district, trying and failing to keep his pace from quickening. He wanted to run up the hill and managed to save his dignity thanks to the crowd of children who gathered around him, chanting his name and asking about his battles, stumbling as they ran in backwards circles around him. He could barely understand them and had to watch his step to avoid crushing them, but they hardly noticed, begging him to show them his tattoos. Their enthusiasm was infectious; as the ground leveled out beneath his feet, he looked up with a smile on his face, and what he saw took his breath away.

His wife was waiting for him, her hands on her hips, her hair up, her clothing tight, her smile saucy, just as they had been so long ago; her necklace sparkled and the ring on her finger glinted as she came forward, the children scattering in her wake, and put her arms around his neck.

"Well met, Liberator," she said, the smirk on her face not quite hiding the relief in her eyes. "I see you've made it home safe."

"Yes," he said, pulling her close, closing his eyes and resting his head against hers. She squeezed him, the grip of her hands tight on his shoulders, and for several long, peaceful minutes they stood there, holding each other, until he thought he heard her sniffle and pulled away.

She blinked up at him, smiling fiercely. "Well, come on then," she said. "Let's get you inside."

He took her hand and let her guide him to their house; he stood on the threshold and looked around. There were still too many pieces he'd bought to make it fancy, and not yet enough to make it theirs, but that could change; and she was standing before him, tugging at his hand and looking up at him with heat in her gaze and love on her lips. "You coming?" she asked.

"Yes," the Hero said, and he stepped into his home.


End file.
